


Trust in Me

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: M/M, Masochism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the DA Kink Meme: After his mother's death Hawke is overwhelmed with guilt - he's completely alone now, his entire family gone and he couldn't save any of them. He feels it's all his fault and needs to be punished, so he starts hurting himself, secretly from his lover - cutting, burning, etc. The LI figures it out eventually and puts a stop to it by taking over as his Dom - he is the only one who decides when and how Hawke is hurt and always, ALWAYS provides tender aftercare when the session is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust in Me

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris as Kaa = weird mental image
> 
> also, yet another in-progress story. I'm sorry!

It's the smell.

Wet smell, thick smell. Little like soil. Metal. Rot. Deep wounds and fetid, life-bursting grounds full of hungry plants. It's not pallor that clues him in, or the glassiness in Hawke's eyes, or the lightness of his voice. Just the smell.

Blood.

And there's no time for this now: Hawke has just been dragged out of the Qunari compound within an inch of his life, Aveline pulling him while he stared up in confused shock at the Arishok, or maybe the javelin in his shoulder. Fenris has to swallow, grit his teeth, clench his jaw tight.

"You're hurt," he says, perhaps unnecessarily. Aveline is already trying to rip Hawke's robes open around the spear, bare the skin so she can assess the wound.

Hawke is ignoring Fenris (he has done that, sometimes, since Fenris left-- never cruelly, just-- ignored him a little, when it is easier to), and pushes away playfully at Aveline's hands. He groans, hissing at the pain as the shaft of the javelin splinters a bit with the motion. "Come on, now, I like these robes."

"Hawke," Aveline says darkly. "Don't be an idiot."

She gets him to hold still, pries the spear from where it's wedged up in tendons and bone, bandages it tight. Anders, where ever he is, can't help them just now. There's no time to stop and think. Not even really time to nurse Hawke's wound away, but his right arm is hanging useless at his side and Fenris doesn't like their odds.

Varric watches it all with dark eyes, brooding. When they're done, he speaks up suddenly: "Damned uninteresting way to bring it all to a head, don't you think?"

Rather than be fazed, Hawke is already setting a grueling pace for Hightown, pushing through whatever pain lingers, his left hand gripping his staff tightly. "I know! Imagine if he'd succeeded and killed me. What would you have _done_?"

Maybe Varric's laughter is hollow, or maybe he's just too bothered by the looming possibility that Hawke may die, here. It is alarming to see Varric serious. Or it would be. Fenris's thoughts are clouded with concern, and that smell that he knows so intimately. Blood. Blood. Blood.

"In any case, be cautious now," Aveline warns Hawke, with a wry twist of her lips. "I know you're stubborn, but don't go mixing that up with 'unscathed'."

"I've been known to have trouble with that distinction," Hawke accedes. His grin is a vicious line of teeth in the flames and shadows. Their steps are quick and quiet; they strike whenever they see Qunari hounding the citizens of Kirkwall, cutting a path of death and destruction (Hawke's sort: ice that chokes the flames, leaving bitter ash and nothing else behind) straight through to Hightown.

When they are momentarily distracted by a small cadre of Grey Wardens, Hawke wobbles on his feet, blinking, stunned. He has told stories about this particular grey warden, and been told stories about him in turn (by Anders, by Isabela). One who didn't know better might mistake his hesitation for hero-worship. He asks, "Won't you join us?" as cavalierly as a man who is bleeding out can sound.

The warden declines; Fenris wonders what lies in wait, that could be more pressing than the city going up in flames. But they do not waste time.

And soon, they are in the Viscount's court. Everything from there is a blur of adrenaline and the increasingly maddening thrum of blood in his ears. He hears himself clarify, when Hawke falters, that there should be a duel, if the Arishok recognizes the mage's power.

He sees the grateful smile on Hawke's face, and under the veneer of calm an almost adoring-- what is that? What does Hawke want?-- that is quickly covered with a cheery aside.

"If I die, I'll come back to haunt you in particular!"

The fight is excrutiating to watch.

He does not want to know how Varric will retell it. Knowing will only annoy him, remind him of the visceral thrill he feels, seeing Hawke shrug off wave after wave of exhaustion, blasting the Arishok point blank with magic. No matter how weak Hawke may be, physically, he is fast. Without that speed he would be dead several times over. As it is, he does not always finish casting his spells before the Arishok's blows meet his frail body, and four times is thrown into a pillar, the wall, a watching noble who screams, trying to catch him as he slumps bonelessly into her arms, eyes fluttering as he fights to stay conscious.

Hawke is bleeding from his shoulder, the corner of his mouth. The gore-wound in his stomach.

His hands.

And Fenris watches, not sure what to expect, as Hawke slowly rises, staggering, and brings down the crash of a lightning storm, stunning the Arishok long enough to freeze him, smack him with that useless little staff, and crush him at last with a fist of pure stone.

The Arishok falls, and Hawke drops to his knees beside the beast, retching. For a long moment, the nobles are silent, save the few who are weeping. No one dares move until, with a concentrated amount of effort that Fenris can _feel_ from where he stands, Hawke slowly pushes himself to his feet, wobbling only a very little.

He turns to Fenris for a split second, looking at him desperately. Fenris cannot help the proud smile that has found its way to his lips, seeing Hawke's display of honor: and he doesn't miss the radiant look of relief in the mage's eyes as he completes his turn, addressing the nobles. His voice is thin and raspy, but still has that low pulse of strength that makes him so very desirable to so many people.

"It is done." He points to the nearest of the Qunari warriors, scowling (or squinting, actually, because his eyes are clearly not focusing). It is a wonder that his hand does not tremble. "You will honor the words of the Arishok and leave this place."

They do.

And finally, the spell is broken; Fenris moves to Hawke's left, Aveline to his right, and Varric parts the crowd before them as they drag Hawke to safety, trying not to flinch at the sound of his labored breathing, the rattle in his throat that suggests his minutes are short.

He doesn't even notice Aveline rushing down to the cellars, sneaking into Darktown to fetch Anders and bring the healer here. He is busy fetching whatever Bodahn and Varric suggest, while Varric carefully cuts apart Hawke's robe around the worst of the wounds, where it has been pushed inside of his body before the fabric frayed and tore.

There are moments in between, when Varric curses and goes to ask Bodahn where the wine is for Hawke's sake. Fenris is kneeling at Hawke's side, wiping sweat and blood off of his too-pale skin. He sees those wary eyes watching him, and grabs Hawke's chin, forcing Hawke to meet his gaze.

"We will be talking," he says at last, pointing to the subtle stripes of blood from recently-reopened slashes along Hawke's thighs that the others, fortunately, have not yet noticed-- might not, since there is no need to strip him bare while healing him. "about these. But not now."

Hawke's eyes glimmer with defiance. "I'm a big boy, Fenris, I'll be fine." His voice is a smoky whisper, rasping like stones on stones.

"We will," he reasserts darkly, "be talking."

With a subtle squeeze of Hawke's chin that seems to make the other man flush, Fenris steps away again, returning to his duties. Anders eventually arrives; healing is received, and much appreciated.

By dawn, only Fenris remains, and Hawke is asleep.

This time, he does not leave.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Warrant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/728098) by [darkwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood)




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